I held his gaze and nodded.
What moved across his face was slow and deeply, privately satisfied. "You know," he said, "my professor in Lyon — Professor Marceau, wonderful man, terrible breath — he used to say that life has a remarkable sense of irony for those patient enough to wait for it." He gestured toward me. "Voilà. There it is. Right there."
"It's not revenge," I said quickly. "It's not that."
"Then what is it?"
I turned my glass on the table. "It's just sex."
"Okay." He sipped his drink.
I waited for him to say something else. He didn't. He just sat there looking pleasantly unbothered, which was its own kind of pressure.
"It helps me forget," I said finally.
"Mm." He swirled his glass. "You know, Professor Marceau used to say that the most honest thing a person can do is ad
